Vanilla
by KissTheBoy7
Summary: Mark is gone, maybe for good; Roger is plagued by memories, images, words and above all, the scent of vanilla on the things that Mark left behind. Angsty oneshot. Implied Marker. Mark/Roger.


**A/N: … Are you prepared for angst? Are you? Really? Because if you're not I suggest running for the hills now. This was originally GOING to be more fluff but… sorry, Liv, it definitely took a turn for the dark side. :L Oops. Anyways, enjoy.**

Disclaimer: I don't own RENT and I don't own angst in general… Actually, I don't even completely own this idea.

**Vanilla**

The loft is eerily silent in the middle of the day and Roger is beginning to get unnerved. He doesn't dare to pick up his guitar, strum a few tuneless notes like he usually would.

He's not sure he'll ever be able to do that again. Not without crying.

Not without Mark.

He'd always wondered how Mark could stand it, being alone all the time. Roger, he hates being alone. He hates it more than anything, more even than silence, which he's always sought to destroy. Roger is loud, impulsive, rambunctious-

Yeah, and look where it got him. Sitting on the rickety old couch that's liable to fall apart any second of any day, curled up with scrap of blue and white fabric, face pressed to it as he smells and remembers and tries to block out the sound that isn't there.

Tears, stinging- but Roger isn't half as opposed to crying as Mark is.

Was.

Well, to be fair, Mark probably hates crying just as much in Scarsdale as he did on Avenue C, but Roger has no way of knowing whether or not that's true.

"_Don't bother looking for me. Don't go calling around. I'm serious, Roger… I love you and I want you to be happy."_

Shuddering, Roger swallows and picks himself up off of the couch with the intention of actually doing something, anything other than wallowing in silence and the sense of loss that leaves his chest empty and aching.

It's like someone's torn his heart out and left his ribcage cracked open, open to the world, and nothing has bothered filling the space left behind.

But as soon as he stands the fabric in his hands shifts and the smell of his roommate permeates the air directly around him and all of the color drains from his face again, falling heavily back down onto the couch, tears springing back to his eyes. _Vanilla._ It smells like Mark, it smells good, but Mark isn't here for him to say that to teasingly in passing anymore.

"_I can't make you happy here… I can't make you happy at all. Not when I'm like this. Not when I keep bouncing back and forth between the two of you."_

The words echo in his mind, seeming to ring through the loft, and Roger belatedly realizes that he preferred the silence to this.

Except…

"_I don't want to hurt you anymore. I love you."_

Except it's Mark's voice and, well, at the very least that gives him something to cling to.

Feeling almost dead, his muscles stiff from the amount of time he'd spent just sitting on the couch and staring at the wall in a sort of dazed horror after Mark left, Roger stares down at the fabric and wrinkles it again, inhaling deeply. The scent of Mark's lotion had always intoxicated him, aroused him- _Mmm, Marky, you smell yummy…-_ but now it just made him feel sick.

"_And that's why I can't stay."_

The note is still sitting on his bed where Mark had left it, all hasty scribbles and a nearly illegible signature at the bottom. Roger will pretend that he doesn't see the tearstains on the page, smearing the ink in places. He'll pretend for Mark's sake, because he's sure that "wherever" Mark is- and wherever is obviously code for Scarsdale, or Roger desperately hopes so because otherwise he doesn't have any idea where his lover has gone- he'd hate to think that Roger had seen a symptom of his heartache.

Mark is a rock. Mark is strong.

Mark doesn't _cry._

And Roger is happy to pretend for him, dutiful as ever in his denial, because then at least he's doing something besides sitting on his ass without any passion to speak of.

Who needs food, anyways… And showers. Those things are overrated.

Roger wonders if any of the necessities of life can really be called necessary when he's gone without them for two days now…

He yawned, jaw nearly cracking, head spinning for a moment at the lungful of air.

Well, there's sleep. Sleep is always good. Sleep is like Roger's new smack- it's an escape and if there were ever a time when he needed it, it's now.

On that note he slowly, slowly laid down on the uncomfortable cushion, still curled into an uncomfortable ball. Mark's old flannel shirt remained in a death grip against his chest, nose buried in the worn reddish fabric. His eyes closed. He didn't have to pretend he was tired, force himself- he was exhausted, at least mentally, and he thanked God for the darkness that surrounded him when his eyes fell shut.

But even behind his lids, Mark lingered, those big blue eyes staring sadly at him as they had in the past few months, helpless and silently pleading for Roger to _do _something.

There's nothing he can do now, though. Just lay there and breathe, slow and even, occasionally hitching in quiet almost-sobs and whimpers that he normally wouldn't be proud of but right now everything and everyone can go fuck themselves because Roger is hurting and he doesn't care who knows.

In fact, he _wished_ someone was left to see it.

He was alone.

No one to hug him, no one to go find Mark and bring him back, no one to tell him to get his ass off the couch.

No one to push him off of the fire escape and get it over with.

"_Love, Marky."_

He'd always hated being called Marky. Always. Maureen had known this, poked fun at it- but there wasn't much to be said about Mark's reactions. Stoic as ever, he'd simply huff and brush her off, his annoyance muted and barely even recognizable.

Except…

Except-

Except with Roger.

Smiling shakily as his minds rambling became more and more disjointed, Roger drifted into a fitful sleep, the scent of vanilla in his nose fueling bittersweet dreams of the filmmaker he had loved and lost.


End file.
